


interlude

by camiii



Category: Gossip Girl, Political Animals
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Underage Drug Use, Underage Kissing, and T.J. being T.J., basically chuck being chuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camiii/pseuds/camiii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night T.J. somehow ends up on the Upper East Side, and in the company of one Chuck Bass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	interlude

**Author's Note:**

> So a while back I was talking to my friend nonnie about how T.J. and Nate Archibald would be all kinds of awesome together, and she offered to write them for me...and then _she_ mentioned how, in her head canon, T.J. and Chuck had definitely hooked up before her fic takes place...and my brain practically melted because _YES_.
> 
> and then this happened. after we spent what felt like _hours_ trying to get the timeline right because that's just how we do things.
> 
> set pre-series for both shows (summer before season 1 for GG, and several years before PA)
> 
> **warning** ; underage drug use and sexual situations. Chuck is 16 in this fic, and T.J. is 25.

He doesn’t usually frequent the Upper East Side, especially not this kind of establishment where everyone has too much money, and are too interested in being seen. After years of living in a fishbowl - constantly monitored through security cameras and analyzed by the media - the anonymity New York can still offer feels like a relief. So he usually keeps to the darker parts of town; far removed from the glitter and flashing cameras, where the crowd is either too high to recognize him, or just doesn’t care about his last name.

But it’s late, probably early morning; he kind of lost track somewhere around his umpteenth shot of Patron. He can’t quite remember how he went from a seedy underground club in Brooklyn to _this_ , only knows there was a car full of people he doesn’t know laughing and singing at the top of their lungs as they crossed the bridge.

There had been paparazzi outside of the club, of course; recognizing him the moment he stumbled out of the cab, calling his name, stumbling over each other in their urgency to get a good shot. It had been a relief to slip past the security guards and through the door, flickering strobe lights creating a familiar camouflage. 

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, T.J. leans back against the couch as he takes in his surroundings. The VIP area is packed with too-thin girls in various states of undress, and too-rich assholes leering at the exposed stretches of skin. Suddenly weary, T.J. reaches out for the bottle on the table in front of him and pours himself another shot. It’s always best to be anything but sober in places like these, that way he might be numb enough not to notice the looks or overhear his own name in whispered conversations. A girl appears next to him, drawn to the possibility of free booze like a moth to a flame, locks of blonde hair covering his vision for a brief, dizzying second as she leans into him. There’s a hand on his thigh, squeezing, and he pushes a shot glass into her hands before things have a chance to get awkward.

As T.J. throws back his own shot, something catches his attention; a bright flash of color in the crowded room, a loosened tie or a scarf of some kind, it’s hard to tell. T.J. follows the silhouette of the colorful accessory where it lies against a crisp, white button-down, only to find the guy wearing it looking right at him.

He’s young, probably in his upper teens, but with a look in his eyes that doesn’t leave any room for innocence. Still, he’s too young compared to T.J.’s twenty-five. He looks vaguely familiar, but T.J. can’t place him, too busy appreciating the curve of his lip and the perfect cut of his slacks. The guy is making no secret of the way he lets his gaze trail slowly down T.J.’s body, lip tugging into a dirty smirk. T.J. shifts in his seat, straightens, caught off guard by the obvious perusal.

A leggy brunette staggers into view, leaning in close to whisper something in the guy’s ear. Her fingers play with the collar of his designer shirt, tugging teasingly as she throws one leg over his, nearly straddling him on the low couch. The guy barely reacts, looking almost bored, one hand splayed casually over the girl’s thigh.

T.J. watches the exchange in rapt attention. He might not be able to hear a word they’re saying, but the girl’s goal is evident in her every move. She’s looking to score, putting herself on display with ease that comes with knowing it will pay off. He has lost track of how many times he has performed a similar routine himself, even though he could easily afford to buy his own. The younger version of himself simply found making a game out of it more of a thrill.

The girl is successful in her endeavor. The trade is discreet; a small bag slipped inside the elastic top of her stocking, disguised as a lascivious grope followed by a kiss that’s all tongue. T.J. can do nothing about the way his throat dries up at the sight, every inch of him suddenly screaming for a high; preferably combined with that guy on his knees, putting that mouth of his to good use.

Moments later, the girl disappears into the crowd. Familiar-face looks over at T.J. once more, obviously pleased to find him already looking and tilts his head towards the back of the room in invitation. He looks barely legal but there’s something about him that has T.J. getting to his feet before he can even begin to second guess his decision. He takes a last, long drag from the open bottle on the table, relishing the burn of alcohol, before following the guy to where he disappears from view.

He ends up in the men’s bathroom, the lights surprisingly bright. The guy barely spares him a look, busy placing a small, zip-lock bag on the counter top before moving over to the sink to wash his hands.

Need, sharp and prickling invades his senses, leaving him dizzy. They shouldn’t be doing this here, he knows. Would definitely prefer to be back in the comforts of his hotel room, and not only for the luxury of a bed close by; there’s the obvious risk of one of the club’s security guards walking in. Apparently an arrest for possession is not a big concern for his new-found benefactor.

“Please,” the guy replies off-handedly, prompting T.J. to realize he spoke the last part out loud, as he dries himself off on one of the plush towels provided, boredom laced through every word as he continues, “I’m Chuck Bass.”

Chuck Bass. Of course. There’s not a single person on Manhattan who has escaped the rumors surrounding the playboy millionaire, and fuck, he really is about to rob the cradle here. Chuck can’t be more than sixteen. It’s fucked up, the whole situation so unmistakably _wrong_ he almost walks right back out the door.

“Waiting for something?” Chuck spares him a look through the mirror, before he goes back to watching his own reflection, reaching out to push a stray hair back in place. He looks every inch the rich brat in that moment, with his too crisp shirt and $300 haircut, and T.J. wants to mess him up; wipe the smug look off his face and reduce him to a rumpled heap.

“Enjoying the view,” T.J. replies with a shrug, leaning back against the wall and leaving the last vestige of a moral compass behind. He stretches, feeling the soft cotton of his t-shirt ride up a little, revealing a strip of skin just above his belt. The black jeans he’s wearing might be old and worn, rags compared to Chuck’s designer slacks, but they fit him just right and he knows he looks good. Just like with the girl from earlier, the invitation to play is obvious in every line of his body, exactly the way he intended. He flashes the younger man a grin, and relishes the flare of heat, low in his gut, when Chuck’s eyes darken.

“So, are you sharing?”

“Be my guest,” Chuck drawls, stepping back to rest his hip against the counter, and carefully pours some of the powder onto the back of his own hand.

T.J. doesn’t need to be asked twice, finding his legs surprisingly unsteady as he walks up to Chuck. He wraps his fingers around Chuck’s wrist, squeezing lightly, before bowing down to inhale the squiggly, white lines in quick breaths.

When he’s finished, he finds Chuck once again tracking his every move. It’s a whole new brand of addictive; being the sole focus of that burning attention. Stepping back, T.J. reluctantly lets go of Chuck’s hand, grimacing at the acrid taste in his mouth before the rush of euphoria takes over.

The world shrinks; reduced to the rapid beating of his heart and the muffled sounds of the club through the thin walls. He opens his eyes just in time to see Chuck straighten where he stands, a look of bliss momentarily softening his features. He looks fucking perfect, a little loose around the edges now and practically begging to be touched.

T.J. moves before he even finishes the jumbled thought; slipping a hand around Chuck’s neck, the other ending up clutching the colorful scarf. They stumble, Chuck crashing against the wall with a thud. T.J. follows him, edges closer, comfortable now that things are playing out in the pattern he predicted.

Chuck tilts his head back lazily, quirks an eyebrow as if to say ‘now what?’ with the air of someone used to being in control but feeling indulgent. T.J. moves his hand to Chuck’s throat, adding a little pressure and watches Chuck jaw twitch, Adam’s apple working underneath T.J.’s palm as he swallows. 

“Come on, Hammond, I haven’t got all night.” Chuck urges him on, and T.J. is pleased to find that he sounds far from unaffected. His heartbeat is thumping steadily against the pad of T.J.’s thumb, quickening as he adds a little more pressure.

“Shut up,” T.J. replies, without vigor, and kisses him. He quickly loses himself in the way Chuck’s jaw works under his palm and tongues slipping wetly together. Chuck tastes like expensive scotch and blow, licking his way into T.J.’s mouth, hands on his hip, on his shoulder, clawing him closer and _fuck_ , it’s too good. He wants to be so much closer; wants to take Chuck back to his hotel, get every hindering layer of expensive clothes off and just take whatever he can get. Wants to find out if Chuck looks as good on his hand and knees as T.J. thinks he would. He can picture it with startling clarity, the flex and stretch of muscles, the drag of sweat-damp skin against skin, the stuttered breaths.

T.J. is not sure how long it’s been; too busy getting his hands on naked skin, and swallowing the sound Chuck’s makes as he slots their hips together, when the door swings open. Two girls in short dresses stumble inside as they reluctantly break apart, breaking into drunken peals of laughter at the sight of the two of them still in each other’s personal space. T.J. cringes at the shrill sound, removing his hand from underneath Chuck’s shirt, expecting the sound of cell phone cameras at any second. He angles his face away from the girls and attempts a step back, surprised when Chuck tightens his grip around his hip, stopping him in his tracks.

“Ladies, what can I do for you?” Chuck drawls, as he moves the two of them around so that T.J.’s pressed up against the counter top. There’s a breathless note in his voice that makes T.J. want to throw his head back and laugh. He did that, he made the Chuck Bass lose his cool. Triumph is a heavy weight burning low in his gut, and he can’t help but brush his lips across the sharp line of Chuck’s jaw, grinning at the shudder that he gets in response. Encouraged, he does it again, adding some teeth, a hint of tongue, grinning when Chuck swallows audibly, tightening his grip around T.J.’s wrist.

“We’ve been waiting forever” The shorter of the girls reply. “Jen and I got tired of playing by ourselves.” She pouts, stroking a hand teasingly down the other’s arm.

They’re twins, T.J. realizes, straightening where he stands, and the irony of the situation is not lost on him. He’s about to be traded for a full set. An image of Douglas flashes through his mind and wow, apparently others aren’t as fazed by the idea of sharing a bed and a partner with your own sibling, he shudders at the thought. The rumors surrounding the infamous Chuck Bass clearly hadn’t been as exaggerated as he’d assumed.

“Looks like the two of you are having fun,” the other girl adds playfully, sauntering over to them on high heels, winking in T.J.’s direction as she plasters herself against Chuck’s side, offering T.J. an ample view of her cleavage as she does. “I like fun.” She speaks close to Chuck’s ear, making no effort to lower her voice as she slides a hand down his chest, keeping her eyes on T.J..

Chuck doesn’t reply, but produces a small zip lock bag from his pocket. He shakes a pill out into his palm, before placing it on his tongue. He pulls the girl closer to kiss her deeply, slipping her the pill as he does. She sways and steadies herself with a hand on T.J.’s shoulder. T.J. can feel the heat of her palm through the thin material of his t-shirt, head spinning as she digs her nails in, just enough to hurt. Still reeling a bit from the high, T.J. watches the two of them, unable to tear his eyes away. A flare of want runs down his spine, pooling low in his gut.

He’s unprepared when the girl turns her attention to him, licking her way into his mouth before he has a chance to protest. He kisses her back on pure instinct, his hand coming to rest on the swell of her ass. Chuck is still pushed up against him, nails digging into the back of his neck, anchoring him. T.J. shudders, sequins digging into his palm as a hand, unmistakably male, covers his own and pushes the girl’s hips against his. She moans, low and soft, and the sound snaps T.J. back to reality, and has him pulling back from the kiss.

“I like him.” The girl grins dazedly at Chuck a moment later, unperturbed by the rejection. “Is he joining us?”

“The limo’s out front, tell Arthur I’ll be right there.” Chuck replies, ignoring the question and holds out the plastic bag for her to take. She smiles, pushing the bag into the low-cut neckline of her dress before she turns around and walks out the door. Her sister follows behind, with a last, lingering look in T.J.’s direction.

T.J. watches them disappear, for a moment lost in the way the room spins around him, clears his throat. “Twins? Really?”

 “What can I say, they find me.” Chuck shrugs, but fails to completely hide his smile. Apparently the irony hasn’t been lost on him either. “So, what do you say, Hammond? You up for it? Well-” He trails off, a grin on his face, looking down to the obvious bulge in T.J.’s jeans. Not fully hard but getting there.

“I thought you were strictly into dick.” Chuck notes, tugging playfully at T.J.’s belt, fingers dancing dangerously close to where he needs them most.

“Breasts are okay,” T.J. shrugs with indifference he doesn’t quite feel, but smiles at Chuck’s startled laugh.

“So,” Chuck murmurs, his thumb finding its way underneath the thin material of T.J.’s shirt, brushing against his stomach. “You staying? Or _coming_?”

T.J. wavers, decides to kiss the grin off Chuck’s face to hide his indecision. He doesn’t trust the hungry gleam in twin number two’s eyes. He knows when somebody looks at him and sees ‘T.J. Hammond – former First Son’. Then there’s the part of himself that knows he’s got nothing to offer, that he’s too much of a mess to be preferable over the other option, _any_ option. And shit, Chuck’s too young. He might look the part of the playboy billionaire, play the role with startling conviction but he’s just a kid. T.J. has heard a lot about Chuck’s family, or lack thereof, but it’s not enough to leave him irredeemable. T.J. would ruin him beyond repair. It’s what he does best, after all. He forces himself to end the kiss, head swimming as he does.

“Nah,” T.J. replies after a beat, pushing a hand through his hair. “I’ll pass.”

Chuck steps closer; close enough to for their chests to touch. “That’s a shame,” he murmurs, slipping one hand around T.J.’s hip, palming his ass before slipping something into the back pocket of his jeans. The kiss that follows is deep, still a touch frantic; efficiently reminding T.J. of exactly how good it could have been. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Thomas.”

T.J. watches Chuck disappear out the door, and a small part of him already regrets declining the offer. He slips a hand into his back pocket, finding the rest of Chuck’s stash of blow there in its clear zip-up bag. Stepping into one of the stalls, T.J. sits down on the closed toilet lid. Biting back a groan he briefly considers finishing himself off right then and there, but no. When he replays tonight for the first time, as if they hadn’t been interrupted, he wants to take his time. He takes another hit off the back of his hand instead, sprawling loose-limbed and floating, fingers tapping out a melody against his thigh. _One day I’ll fly away_.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> interlude _n._ \- between games
> 
> lots of love to nonnie for the encouragment and beta.


End file.
